Common

It was happenstance that led Gwyn to Luthien that day. Built and bred for the cold, Gwyn had been headed for the most northern of the islands when a storm had blown him off course. The Thicket had been guarded. Heavily guarded, in fact. There were three separate stallion scents lingering on the trees, and yet only one had charged from the brush to chase Gwyn off. He had been pale too, speckled along his face and neck. Young. Brash. He had come at Gwyn firing on all pistons and Gwyn had done nothing but defend until Masamune had begun to grow tired. In biding his time, the new king had plenty of energy throughout the fight. In truth, it could have gone either way, he thought, but the other stallion had conceded early. Limping off to wherever the herd was. But before he did, "I will be back for the Thicket," he had snapped. "I look forward to it," Gwyn had responded, truthfully.

Leaving his newly acquired territory in the dead of night with no one to watch it was foolish, perhaps. But Gwyn had never played by anyone's rules but his own. He was as stubborn and foolish as he was intelligent, but his sense of personal justice overshadowed even that. He trusted it to be safe in his absence, and so it would be. And if it wasn't? That was a different problem for a different time.

He'd learned of the customs of the Crossing island fairly quickly. A few mares giggling over a patch of clover had been enough to tell him secrets of more than just that, though most of what they said was useless or petty. Despite his statue, Gwyn moved with practiced ease, gliding near silent through the trees; at least until the crunch of brittle grasses would betray him.

"Make yourself known," the voice hissed and Gwyn turned his head toward the sound. He stepped from the shadows, moonlight glinting off his pale coat and illuminating him. He was ghost-like, ethereal and haunted, as he looked at her. The expression on his face gives nothing away as he stands, adopting his own statue-like pose. "My presence here is of no consequence," he said simply, but one day the islands would know him, "yet." She was beautiful like a blood-mouthed wolf singing to the moon. And just as deadly, he was sure. His words were as mysterious as she was to him.